I'll Be Home for Christmas
by Athena Catriona
Summary: *finished* Midnight has always loved Christmas, but this year, because of a figure from her past, she learns where she truly belongs.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Newsies stuff belongs to Disney (like it actually belongs to me; I'm just a fan), everything else belongs to me, yadda yadda yadda. Enjoy!

I'll Be Home for Christmas

By Athena

            The city was crystallized that morning, enveloped in sleek black ice. Everyone in New York was buddle up at home, perhaps contentedly seated by the fire or stove and appreciating the uncommon silence of the city. The ordinarily bustling streets were void of noise and motion, giving the city a quiet beauty that no one dared to disturb. The only girl out that evening knew very well not to spoil the moment with any ungraceful movements or obnoxiously loud clamor. She moved noiselessly down the streets, through rat-infested alleys and past huge, posh townhouses. When she finally reached her destination, the abandoned Central Park (even the bums of the  city had chosen to gather in alleys, huddled around flaming piles of scrap wood and paper), she drew a deep breath of the frozen air and quickened her pace. She had been waiting for this moment for the passed week, until the pond was empty and safe to skate on.

            Midnight was unable to remove her grin as she sat on the frigid bench and donned her ancient ice skates. She recalled years ago when the lake near her house would freeze over for the entire winter, which was far harsher and longer in Maine, and when she would totter out to the center of the ice to practice various jumps and spins. The mornings had been nearly  silent then as well, the only noises invading her dreamlike concentration were those of the occasional  deer or her grandmother (who shout that she had better come in right then, missing, or her breakfast would be colder than the freshly-fallen snow).

            She took her first confident step onto the ice and found it perfectly firm, even after being trampled on by a hundred skaters the previous afternoon. "Perfect," she murmured happily and smiled as she began to stroke around the pond with grace and speed.

            Little tunes played through her head as though she were a ballerina in a child's jewelry box. She whirled and leapt to these sounds, sliding smoothing over the ice on her poor blades. She was not just another newsgirl any longer, not just Midnight, the girl from Maine who appeared on the fire escape of the Manhattan Lodging House one evening, not just a nobody without a future. She was pure ice and wind

            Soon her cheeks were stained red from the icy air and her lips were beginning to chap, so Midnight sighed and completed one final loop jump before exiting the ice. She adored mornings such as these, before even the sun had risen, when the ever-rushing world stood still for one blessed moment. The newsgirl drew a deep breath and began her hike to the Lodging House where the others were, no doubt, being yelled at by Kloppman for sleeping far too late.

            Midnight was whistling a chipper tune when she entered the building and automatically shook the swiftly melting snow off of her tattered boots at the mat that Kloppman had placed at the door earlier that month.  As she had guessed, she heard her friends mumbling and unwillingly rising out of bed.

            "Those kids, sleeping their lives away…"a familiar mutter wafted to the girl and a minute later the elderly man appeared behind his counter. He caught sight of Midnight and, eyebrows raising slightly, he greeted, "Well, morning, Midnight. Where've you been?"

            She displayed her skates as an answer and grinned, her cheeks still rosy from her morning activity. "I got to bed early last night so I could get up before everyone else and not be asleep while sleeping my papes. Is everyone awake?"

            "They'd better bem" he replied and began to survey his books with extreme solemnity. The girl only chuckled in response as she dashed up the stairs, the din of her friends increasing with each step she took.

            "Wheah's me cigar?!" Racetrack's voice could be heard quite clearly over the other boys'. "Snipeshootah!"

            "You're dead, Pocket!" Aussie shouted at the giggling girl and suddenly the sound of rushing footsteps echoed throughout the second floor. Pocket, who could not  control her laughter, shrieked, "Aussie and Mu-ush, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G! Ya want Mush ta come in heah and kiss ya right now, Aussie? Or do ya wanna wait until ya both can have a romantic moment alone, and den ya can swap smoochies? Say, Aus, when's da weddin'? Can I be a bridesmaid?" The was a loud thud and Pocket's high-pitched giggling immediately followed. "All right, all right! I'll shut up!"

            Midnight sighed and entered the girls' bunkroom where Aussie was helping a breathless pocket to her feet. Twink and Tornado were just exiting the bathroom and chatting casually about plans for that evening. Ivy was quietly brushing her hair in the far corner of the room. Painter, Cricket, and Violent were deeply involved in conversation and occasionally fell into a fit  of delighted laughter. Shadow's voice called from the washroom, imploring, "Say, anybody will' ta spot me two bits tahday?" and Sabrina, still yawning, replied, "Yeah, I can. I had a good day yesterday."

            Violet turned to see  Midnight leaning against the doorway and smiling at the usual sights and sounds of the morning. "Hey, did you get up early this morning?"

            "Yeah, Central Park was so quiet and peaceful, and the ice was perfect," she replied with a wistful grin at the memory. "I just couldn't waste a morning like that, you know?"

            "But aren't you exhausted?" Sabrina wanted to know.

            "And cold?" added Aussie, who shivered at the mere thought of the icy weather. "Blimey, it must be twenty below in the sun, which isn't even up yet."

            Midnight merely shrugged as she answered, "Aw, this weather's nothing. I challenge anyone here to spend one winter in Maine. You'd get used to this real fast."

            Aussie shuddered violently as she fought the urge to dive beneath her pathetic blanket and not face the world until spring. "I miss the good ol' heat of Australia. Aw…the beaches, the sunshine…"

            "I'd rather have the nice winter," sighed Midnight and had to giggle when Aussie cast the girl a befuddled, disgusted stare.

            "No offense but you've got a few roos loose in the top paddock." At the sight of everyone's confused countenances, she explained, "She's absolutely deranged, geez, I thought you'd at least get that one."

             "Bundle up, guys," Violet ordered as she pulled on a threadbare wool hate. "It's cold out there. No groaning, Aus."

            "A girl nevah gets pneumonia when she needs it. Blast."

*****

            Midnight thoroughly enjoyed the city at Christmas time. She could not stroll down a random street without catching sight of at least one holiday decoration sparkling in a huge shop window that was as slick as a sheet of perfect ice. Her mouth watered at the gingerbread houses and chocolate pastries that sat jauntily in the baker's window. Those of the upper class sauntered from shop to shop with butlers, who carried armloads of professionally wrapped presents, at their heels. Even the frigid winter air did not seem biting, only mischievously friendly.

            "Extra!" the auburn-haired newsgirl shouted and waved a paper high above her head. "Christmas celebrations at Saint Patrick's go array, hundreds of lives at stake! Fire at the famous church!" She, of course, failed to mention that the fires were merely the hundreds of lit candles on huge decorated trees. As a husband and wife strolled over to purchase a paper, Midnight adopted her most charming expression. "Buy a pape, sir?"

            "Yes," the man replied shortly and handed over a cent. He snatched the paper out of Midnight's grasp and marched off before she could even thank him; of course, after his rude behavior, she did not believe him to be derserving of thanks even if he did pay her.

            Her spirits still high, she began to sing cheerfully. "We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas—"  She smiled in surprise when her song  was interrupted by a joining voice.

            "And a happy Hanukkah!" Roxy sang and strolled over to Midnight.

            "Hanukkah? I thought it  was supposed to be 'New Year'," the Manhattan newsgirl replied thoughtfully.

            "Oh, I know. I just wanted to make sure I have a happy holiday season, too. No one ever sings Hanukkah carols, so I thought I'd add one in there."

            Midnight shook her head as though in sadness but chuckled warmly. "Roxy, you're too much. What are you doing in Manhattan, anyway? Did you suddenly decide that the Manhattan newsgirls are the best and now you're moving out of Brooklyn?"

            "Never," Roxy replied, adopting a severely affronted expression, and smiled. "I'm actually buying presents for the Brooklyn newsies. If I tried to buy anything in Brooklyn, everyone would know the minute I paid for them, so here I am. I don't know how I'll ever hide anything, but it's worth a try. And I'm going to buy something for my aunt, but she lives in Boston, so I don't have to worry about her knowing beforehand."

            "It must be nice to have your aunt, huh? Even if you don't get to see her much?" Midnight inquired softly. Unwillingly, she slowly began to recall her own family—her grandmother, who had been soft-spoken but firm when the need arose, and who had understood everything; her father, who had made a thousand promised and had been unable to fulfill any of them. The streets of New York seemed to vanish and Midnight drowned in memories that had been formerly tucked away in the safety of her distant memory…

***

            Midnight, a seven year-old called Jill Schwartz then, tugged at her lacey collar which, at the moment, was viciously strangling her and cutting savagely at her throat. This was the dress she usually never even glanced at, the outfit reserved for the most solemn occasions. She despised the dress that morning when she had been forced to retrieve it from her closet and iron the pathetically wrinkled garment.

            "…poor dear," an unfamiliar relative sighed to Jill's father. "Of course, she did lead a full, wonderful life. It must be awful to loose your mother only a few years after your wife."

            Jill did not hear her father's response. She pressed her fingers to her temples and furrowed her forehead as she tried in vain to recall seven years ago, back to that wintry February. Her grandmother, in the middle of making a multitude of baked goods (Jill could still taste the piping hot cookies, the apple pies made with freshly picked apples and spiced with cinnamon, and the cranberry tarts that were Jill's favorites), had once reluctantly told Jill the story of her birth and, consequently, her mother's death. It had happened during a snowstorm, while the wind howled like a wolf at the front door and while snow piled up a foot every hour. Thus, when Jill's mother went into labor they didn't even bother to run for the doctor. While Jill had been a healthy baby, her mother had not made it through labor with such luck. She had lost a great deal of both strength and blood, though did not seem to care.  She had simply asked to hold her daughter, her first and only child, and died an hour later with Jill still placed carefully in her arms.

            As the seven year-old returned to reality and fought back a painful lump in her throat, she wished that she could remember at least a tiny bit of what her mother had been like. There were no pictured placed around the house, save one family portrait taken when Margaret—Jill's mother—had been twelve. _She looked a little like Grandma, Jill reminded herself without the need to add that she, on the other hand, did not resemble her grandmother in the slightest. Gazing up at her father, she saw for the  hundredth time how alike their blue-green eyes  and auburn hair were in vibrancy, although somehow her father's eyes seemed different. At seven years-old, she had not been able to specify what that difference was. But then, she had always tried to avoid such a topic._

            A few strange relatives from distant cities such as Boston, Philadelphia, Richmond, and Chicago had traveled to Jill's home that day to pay their respects to her departed grandmother. Every so often an aunt or second-cousin would place a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder and smile sympathetically at her. "Poor dear," they would sigh pitifully. "How are you, Jill?"

            "All right," Jill would murmur uncertainly and wish that she could simply slip on her skates and rush out to the frozen pond.

            "How do you feel about moving to New York, darling?" one particularly loquacious third-cousin asked, throwing the girl out of her thoughts. "What?" Jill demanded.

            A veil of confusion enveloped the unfamiliar woman's face. "New York City, Jill, where your Uncle Louis lives. You're going—" But before she could finish, Jill had bolted over to her  father who was mid-conversation with an elderly relative.

            "Dad, Dad." Jill tugged at his sleeve with uncommon impatience and anxiety. "Is it true?"

            "Is _what true?" he questioned, voice tensed. He cast an apologetic glance at the relative and shrugged embarrassedly, and then returned his irritated attention to his daughter._

            "_Am I going to live in New York City?" she demanded with eyes as wide as soup tureens. She gripped her father's sleeve tightly, as though somehow that would persuade him to keep his daughter by his side._

            Two weeks later, a dazed Jill found herself alone on a speeding train bound for a foreign city where an unknown uncle lived. A quiet, controlled ache that she dared not to recognize began to manifest itself deep in her heart.

            Uncle Louis, a large, balding man who rarely spoke and found it hard to convey his emotions, had not been all that terrible to live with, actually. Jill came  to like him and felt that he enjoyed her company as well. But it was not long before he died of a heart attack and Jill was once again alone. She had prayed that her father, who had traveled around the East Coat while looking for work (or at least that was what Jill supposed he was doing; she could not see any other reason for his departure), would return to her, that he simply _had to return now that there was no one left to take care of her. At night she would kneel beside her bedside and pray: __Please, God, just let him come back for me and I'll be good for the rest of my life._

            He never even sent word regarding the situation. By then Jill had joined the newsies and began to join her new life as Midnight, the girl who had appeared out of the night and sold papers with a friendly, easy-going grin. Yet Midnight's prayers did not change. At night she would offer up her wishes to God and wondered if she would wake to her father's apologetic smile the next morning.

***

            "…say, Midnight, are you okay?"  Roxy's gentle voice interjected into the auburn-haired girl's painful memories. Midnight felt he Brooklyn girl's hand rest on her shoulder and her usual friendly smile uncurled into a concerned frown.

            "Um, yeah, fine, why?" she asked and forced a grin on her lips. A contrived laugh issued from behind clenched teeth. She realized that Roxy was not fully convinced so, nervously brushing a lock of hair out of her face, she muttered swiftly, "Gosh, Roxy, it's getting late."

            "Yeah…I should be heading back to Brooklyn now," she murmured, a note of worry still evident in her voice. "I guess I'll see you later, Midnight. Merry Christmas."

            "Happy Hanukkah!" Midnight called to the retreating figure of the girl as she trekked through a sea of New Yorkers, all of whom seemed to be carrying large packages and laughing gleefully with loved ones. Sighing deeply, she head a newspaper high at arm's length above her head and shouted without emotion, "Fire in Saint Patrick's Cathedral! City in shock!" 

*****

            "…and on page seven deah's an article about a dog wid six legs. _Six. Geez, and I t'ought Brooklyn was da only place ya'd find da weird stuff," Racetrack mumbled in surprise as he skimmed through the afternoon paper._

            Pocket nodded in agreement and then shrugged. "Well, what can ya expect from people who drag deir knuckles?" She had been grinning proudly at her joke, but instantly adopted an extremely solemn expression when she recalled just who was the famed leader of the Brooklyn newsies. "Jus' don't tell Spot I said dat, all right?" she pleaded in deperation.

            Chuckling lightly, Midnight and Bumlets agreed. "Don't worry, 'Ket, we'll shut up about it," the girl assured the former pickpocket.

            "Yeah, why would we waste such great backmail now instead of waitin' for a beddah time?" Bumlets added and beamed playfully.

            "Like lunchtime," Midnight piped up.

            Nothing enthusiastically, the newsboy continued, "Yeah, and especially aftah dat delicious breakfast of stale bread and coffee, I'm in da mood for a sarsaparilla and a sausage and maybe a roast beef sandwich and aftah dat I could really go for a—"

            "Ya got one stomach or maybe t'ree?" Racetrack asked in mock curiosity. "'Cause I'm t'inking dat would make a pretty good headline: Boy is Medical Wondah. Doctahs in shock. Full story on page five."

            "That outta get some attention," Midnight agreed. "Although I think you might have some competition from newsies using the story about the dog with six legs." She sighed and folded the paper she had been glancing at.  "Well, I'll see you guys later."

            "Lookin' for a sellin' partnah tahday?" Bumlets inquired with as much casualness as he could muster.

            Midnight grinned and stood on the toes of her tattered boots to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Not today—after selling I'm going to do some Christmas business," she replied with a playful smile as though she had related the vague details of a bit of mischief. "I'll meet you back at Tibby's for dinner."

            As she strolled off she heard Racetrack shout at her back: "Remembah, Midnight, me favorite colah's green and my suspendahs are gettin' awful old!"

            Although the newsgirl shook her head and laughed at Racetrack's ever-so-subtle hint, she found herself concerned more with thoughts of her friends than with the headlines of the afternoon. She absently exchanged papers for coins as she considered the gifts she hoped to get for her friends—although she wasn't sure how she would manage to procure them. _Maybe a new pack of cards for Race; his deck is getting old, she pondered. __Ivy could use a new hair ribbon, and I could try to find a pair of new shoelaces for Mush (even though he really could use new shoes). Bumlets's smiling image flashed before her eyes, but this only served to make t he girl more pensive. She and Bumlets had been shyly romantic for the passed few months; a quick kiss on the cheek and holding hands during the walk home from a show at Irving Hall were the most they had experienced. Even so, Midnight could not quell the tremors that rushed up and down her spine when he cast her a brilliant smile across the bunkroom._

            The voice of a customer interjected into her thoughts and brought a crimson blush of to the newsgirl's cheeks. "One paper, if you please."

            "Certainly, she replied and fumbled for a paper. Embarrassed that she had been caught daydreaming (and finding herself fortunate that anyone had even noticed her despite her unusual silence), she mumbled, "Great article on page nine about a dog with—" She was never able to finish her comment for at that moment she glanced up from her papers and into eyes she recognized both a long time ago and the mirror that morning.

            "Da…Dad…" she murmured as she studied the depths of the blue-green eyes, the strength of the chin and the beauty of the carved cheekbones. His clothing was a little more tattered than she had remembered it, but she attributed it to the face that he had undoubtedly been working hard. He heart leapt into her throat and pounded so madly that she imagined it could be heard by the Bronx newsies.

            He blinked once before his jaw fell half open. "Jill?" he asked in amazement. The sound of her name rolling off of his tongue was glorious. "Is that really you, honey?"

            She nodded as a wide smile suffused across her face. "Yeah, it's me."

            "How are you? What are you doing here?" He placed a hand on her shoulder. Midnight wished for a firm embrace but settled for this subtle show of affection. "I thought you were staying with your Uncle Louis."

            She called the stoic balding man with a distant fondness. "No, not anymore. He died a little while ago. I'm a newsie now." She displayed her papers. "It's a good way to make a living." She did not want to talk about herself. She wanted to hear everything about her father—what he had done, what he was doing, what his plans were.  "When did you get to New York?"

            "Oh, about a week ago." He bit at the corner of his lower lip and  raised his eyes to the sky—a habit that Midnight herself possessed when she was considering something other than what she was talking about. He glanced at the giant clock above the doors of a nearby bank and, turning back to Midnight, grinned pleasantly. "What's say I take I you out for dinner? It's getting late and I bet you haven't had anything yet."

            She shook her head, then nodded, confused about the proper gesture to make in response. "That sounds great, Dad."

            "Come on, then. I know a great spot. We can fill each other in on what's been happening over hot chocolates—you still like hot chocolate, right? You used to love it." He offered his arm and guided her down the sidewalk as though he were escorting a debutante to a Christmas ball.

            Midnight found it difficult to answer the simple question. She could only nod and listen to his cheerful rambling as she walked with her father down the sidewalk.

*****

            The hot chocolate was rich and thick, warming Midnight to her toes that had curled like cashews in the cold. She sipped delicately at the steaming liquid, half due to the heat and half because she wanted this dinner to last as long as possible. "So, you've been traveling?"

            Midnight's father nodded and took a large bite of his roast beef sandwich. "Yep. I tell you, the winters in Florida are like nothing else. Nothing like Maine. Orange trees growing all over—you can  just step outside and pick your breakfast. You'd love it there. And the trains take you all the way out west now. Can you believe that? You can see the plains and the mountains, listen to the coyotes, smell that ocean."

            "There's an ocean on this side of the country, too," Midnight reminded him gently.

            "Sure, sure, but the Pacific is clean and pure. It's nothing like being at the habors here." He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Sensing a lull in the conversation, Midnight gathered her courage and was about to speak when a buxom waitress approached the table.

            "More coffee, Mike?" she asked with a smile.

            He raised his mug. "Why not?" Once the waitress had refilled his cup and left, Midnight's father began to speak. "So Jill, how do you like New York? Quite the city, huh?"

            "Oh, it's great. It's very different from home"—she furrowed her forehead for a second, realizing that she had not referred to Maine as home in quite a long time—"but I like it. The newsies are all great. It's almost like having a real family, which is a lot more than I can say for  a lot of street kids; and we make good money. And there aren't just New York kids, either. My best friend, Cricket, is from England."

            Mike chuckled warmly. "Close, personal friends with the Queen, is she?"

            "Well, she'd say so. But most of us wouldn't let her get away with it."

            "It sounds like you've got a good group of friends here."

            Midnight nodded and took another sip of hot chocolate as though to prepare her for what she wanted to ask. "Yeah, I really do. I'm lucky." She drew a quiet, short breath and studied her drink as she murmured, "So what are you doing in the city, Dad?"

            Her father looked at his sandwich, rather than at his daughter, and swallowed the last bite. "Delicious," he remarked and smiled contentedly. Midnight was about to repeat her inquiry when he rested his eyes on her once again. "What am I doing here? Oh, I had heard about this job in a factory—not your everyday factory worker job, mind you, but something better than that. I don't have a place yet; right now I'm staying with friends. I'd have asked you back there but…" he trailed off as though he either thought the rest inconsequential or did not know how to finish.

            She chewed her sandwich thoughtfully. "So…you're planning to stay here? For a while, right?"

            His cheerful grin slid slightly and he coughed, cursing the intense heat of his coffee. "Sure, sure. If the job works out, of course. It won't be forever, unless it gets better and, well, you never know how those things go. But it sounds to me like it's a great job, so who knows?"

            Midnight stared into the creamy brown liquid chocolate and wished that it was a crystal ball. She silently wished that her father would find success and happiness  in this prospective job. The possibility of the future warmed her like the rich drink she clutched in her slightly trembling hands. 

To be continued…please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: I'd like to thank Rhapsody for her wonderful review. I really appreciate it. I hope you enjoy this part as well.

            Jack glanced up from his cards (a sure win, he believed, as he studied the three kinds who were as solemn as he appeared to be) at the sound of footsteps marching across the bunkroom and back again. He sighed heavily and shook his head.  "Hey, Bumlets!" he called to the pacing boy, who halted at the sound of Jack's voice. "Walkin' a hole t'ough da floor ain't gonna bring Midnight heah any soonah!"

            Bumlets rolled his eyes, pushed an anxious hand through his disheveled hair, and sunk to the nearest bunk. "She said she'd meet me back at Tibby's. Dat was almost two hours ago."

            "All right, ante up," Snoddy told Jack, then turned to their nervous friend. "She prob'ly jus' had a bad sellin' day and it took her longah ta sell her last few papes."

            Twink nodded her agreement. "Sure. Unless she found a new guy and decided to neck with him for a while." She placed her cards delicately on the floor, as though to emphasize her hand. "Full house, tens over aces."

            Bumlets leapt to his feet with the speed and frenzy of a runaway train. At the sight of his distress, Violet began to pacify him before he even had the opportunity to verbalize his fears. "Look, Twink doesn't know what she's saying. When's the last time you actually saw her with a guy, anyway?"

            "Romance is overrated," Twink snarled.

            "So don't worry," Violet continued as though she had not heard the blonde newsgirl. "Midnight probably just got caught up selling papers and figured she'd meet you back here instead. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. And if she's not here in another hour or two, we'll go out to look for her—although I'm sure she'll walk in any minute how, telling us—"

            Perfectly on cue, Midnight ambled into the room with a distant look in her eyes and an unnaturally sober twist to her mouth. She did not notice when Bumlets rushed towards her, and only glanced up at the sound of his voice.

            "Midnight, are ya all right?" he asked gently, his stomach twisting at the sight of her expression. "Ya didn't make it ta Tibby's and I t'ought somet'ing happened ta ya."

            She smiled but the gesture did not reach her eyes. "Oh, no, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I just lost track of time."

            He nodded slowly, not fully convinced but willing to give Midnight the benefit of the doubt. "Oh, okay," he murmured. "Are ya hungry? I mean, ya weren't at dinnah. Tibby's is prob'ly still open—we could go get somet'ing for ya."

            "No, no, that's okay," she told him and help up her hands as if in defense. "I'm  fine, really. I guess I had a big lunch." Bumlets remembered the wilted salad she had eaten earlier but did not comment. "I think I'm just going to go and lie down."

            He took a step towards her, losing the façade of casualness he had attempted to maintain. "Are ya sick?" he wanted to know. "If ya are, we could—"

            "No,  really, I'm fine," she insisted with more force than she had intended to use and felt remorseful when he took a cautious step backwards. She sighed heavily. "It's just been a long day. I think getting a good night's sleep will help. 'Night." She managed a half smile and retreated to the hallway, leaving Bumlets frowning at the empty doorway.

*****

            Guilt gnawed at Midnight's stomach as she lay awake in the darkness. She listened to the faint breathing and occasional murmurs of those sleeping peacefully around her. These sounds had become so familiar to her in the years that she had been a newsie. She wondered what  life would be like  if this suddenly all disappeared.

            She felt sick at the thought of lying to her friends, lying to Bumlets, about something that seemed inevitable. She imagined Christmases passed, when she and her friends had given each other simple gifts (the only ones they could afford) and noisily sang carols at midnight, which only caused to anger their neighbors. Then she imagined Christmases even before those, when she had been swept  up in firm embraces and sat curled in a lap by a roaring fire. She crawled deeper under her thin blanket and tried to resist the urge to run away at that very moment.

            _Why am I thinking about this? she demanded of herself with unusual harshness. __I love the newsies, Kloppman, everyone. I have a good life. But…why else would he be here if he didn't want to see me?_

            She could not help hoping. A quiet, controlled but painful ache mixed with the guilt and she felt ill at the very thought of what the near future held.

*****

            "T'ank ya, sir. Merry Christmas," Itey said to an older man as he handed him a paper. The newsboy's smile faded once he glanced at the apprehensive figure, who kept searching the faces in the crowd, beside him. He sighed lightly and spoke gently, as though afraid to disrupt his companion's thoughts. "Face it, Bumlets, she ain't comin'."

            At the sound of his name, Bumlets blinked to remove himself from his worried thoughts. "Huh? Oh, what do ya mean, Itey? I ain't lookin' for anyone in particulah."

            Itey raised his eyebrowd suspiciously. "Uh-huh,"  he murmured. "Jus' like you'se really sellin' da papes tahday"

            He looked down at the thick stack of newspapers under his arm and compared it to the few editions Itey still had. He opened his mouth to curse the poor headlines but, thinking better of it, shook his head at his tattered shoes. "I'm worried about her, Itey. It's da third day in a row dat she jus' disappeahed. I mean, she always gets back ta da lodgin' house all right, so I know it's not like she's in serious trouble or anyt'ing, but…" he struggled to find the right words, "it's…it's like she's found somewheah else she'd raddah be."

            "Maybe it's da season," Itey suggested and scanned the papers for a new headline to shout to the denizens of New York City.

            "Midnight loves Christmas," he debated. "It's her favorite holiday And she's barely said anyt'ing about it since last week."

            Itey nodded. "Yeah, ya'd t'inhk she'd be a liddle more excited about it bein' Christmas Eve and all. Maybe deah's somet'ing else goin' on."

            "But she coulda talked about it ta me." That was what hurt Bumlets the most. Something was obviously bothering Midnight and, despite their closeness, she had avoided him rather than asked for his help. Certainly he did not expect her to divulge all of her most painful secrets. _I jus' wish I knew what was goin' on, he thought. __But it ain't jus' me. Nobody knows what's wrong wid her, not even Cricket, and  she's her best friend. He had discussed the situation with Cricket the day before and all the girl could offer was a shrug. "Dunno, love," she had said. "Hasn't said a word ta me about anythin'. It's strange, really. She's usually so laid-back, but now it's like she's…walkin' on pins or somethin', I don't get it." No one in the lodging house could discern the cause of Midnight's unusually solemn state. Fearing what might come, Bumlets shivered and blamed it on the biting cold._

*****

            Midnight marched down the sidewalks with a pensive frown carved into her face. She thought of the fake gold pocket watch resting comfortably in her coat pocket (which she had made sure had no holes). _He'll like it, she assured herself for the eighteenth time that afternoon, although her stomach continued to twist into a complicated knot. __He'll like it and he'll stay here and we can be a kind of family again._

            She had considered the weight of the watch very carefully before she bought it. It did not weigh much in comparison to the handkerchief full of coins she had been saving since mid-October. She had paused for a moment before handing her money to the thin, elderly man behind the counter who had frowned deeply with impatience. She knew that she would have no money left over to buy presents for her fellow newsies but, at the memory of her father's laughing eyes, she pressed the handkerchief into the man's palm and pushed the thought out of her mind. She wished she could banish her anxiety just as easily.

            _Don't think about that. Think about how pleased he's going to be when he sees the watch. It's just the present a daughter would give her father. She pictured his luminous smile, his dancing eyes as they studied the watch sparkling in the  moonlight._

            "I'm doing the right thing," she told herself quietly as she stepped into Tibby's, which was already filled with chattering newsies.

            She was so preoccupied in her thoughts that she barely noticed Bumlets leaping from his chair and rushing to her side. "Heya, Midnight," he greeted as she removed her threadbare jacket.

            "Oh," she replied in slight surprise, "hey, Bumlets."

            "So, how'd sellin' go tahday?" he asked, searching her face for more than the answer to his question, and led her to a table.

            "Selling?" she reiterated, her voice unusually high and tight. She had only bought a few papers in order to have enough time to meet her father for a cup of coffee, just as she had done for the passed few days. She smiled faintly at the memory of walks around the city and discussions of Maine, New York, and her father's vague plans for the future. She had noticed the fact that he had never included her in his plans but she shook the apprehension out of her head. _Of course he's thinking about you. Why else would he still be here? "Selling was fine. Just like usual. How about you?"_

            He nodded and twirled a fork absently between his fingers. "Oh, fine. Itey and I sold tahgeddah." He glimpsed Midnight out of the corner of his eye  and, before he could rethink his next statement, went on, "So maybe we could sell tahgeddah aftah Christmas. Ya know, when you'se done wid Christmas shoppin' and ev'ryt'ing."

            Midnight studied the wooden table as though it were immensely fascinating. She imagined living with her father in a real apartment, eating dinner at a kitchen table, perhaps going to school. "Oh, Bumlets, I don't know."

            "Ya…ya ain't sellin' wid someone else, are ya?" he inquired softly and turned to face the girl to see her reaction.

            "No," she mumbled into her lap.

            Bumlets wondered if the quiet, sullen girl beside him was the same person who had made a snowman in Central Park last winter, had laughed through poker games (which she never managed to win), and had reached over to hold his hand one rainy evening as they walked home through the massive puddles. He could not contain his curiosity any longer. "Midnight, what's da maddah? Ya ain't been yaself dese passed couple of days. Is deah anyt'ing I can do?"

            "Nothing's wrong," she insisted and her voice was slightly chocked, as if her throat was lined with damp newspaper.

            "Somet'ing's gotta be da maddah. Ya come back late and nobody knows wheah ya go all day and ya don't talk ta anybody anymoah."

            Midnight's eyes narrowed defensively and her face contorted into a scornful frown. _What does he know about it, anyway? Has he been waiting for years to see his father again? How could he possibly understand what I feel? Why does he assume he knows anything?_

            She jumped to her feet and, eyes boring into Bumlets's, clenched her fists. "Why does something have to be wrong with me?" she demanded, her voice rising and silencing the conversations around them. She continued, either not noticing or not caring about the befuddled stares of her fellow newsies. "Maybe something is finally _right with me. Maybe I have one chance to get everything I've ever wanted and that means not being with you." His eyes flashed with pain and, despite the gnawing sadness in her heart, she went on, hoping that this would make the separation easier. "Maybe you never understood me in the first place." She strode towards the door and, halfway outside and without her coat, called over her shoulder, "Don't follow me." The door swung to a violent close that made the glasses of sarsaparilla tremble. Bumlets's heart followed their example._

*****

            Clouds blanketed the sky and foretold the coming of snow. While the air was frigid, most windows glowed with the warmth of fires, parties, and laughter. The skaters, who had filled the ice to capacity that afternoon, had disappeared to join their families and friends for Christmas Eve celebrations. Midnight skated lazily around the edge of the frozen lake and could not help but wonder what the newsies were up to. She recalled Christmas Eves passed, when she and her friends would visit other lodging houses or travel to Irving Hall for the vaudeville actors' annual party. She bit at her chapped lower lip and tried to concentrate instead on what she was gaining.

            _I told him to be here at ten o'clock, she thought anxiously as she gazed at an empty Central Park. __What if he got hurt or mugged or sick and he's lying cold and alone somewhere? She took a step towards the grass, thought better of it, and skated to the center of the pond to resist the temptation to search for her father. __I'll give him fifteen more minutes. It's better to stay here, in case he comes when I'm gone and thinks I didn't want to meet him._

            To keep her mind off of the time, she did a series of back crossovers into a waltz jump but, as her body tensed and she threw herself off balance, she landed with a loud, painful thud. She moaned and caressed her right thigh, which had taken most of the impact of the fall. At the sound of a familiar voice she forgot about her pain.

            "Next time, pull in tighter."

            Midnight sped to the edge of the pond, where her father stood smiling. "Dad! I'm so glad you made it." She threw her arms enthusiastically around his heck and he laughingly stepped out of her embrace to reply.

            "So am I, especially as it's Christmas Eve."

            She nodded, unable to bridle her questions. "So how did your job go? Have you found a place yet? Because I could—"

            She was unable to finish, as he interjected with a pointed cough and gazed at the pond as he answered. "Well, ah, it turns out that it isn't going to go so well, Jill. My friend has tipped me off about another great job, though, one out in Chicago. Great city."

            "Oh," Midnight murmured as images of her friends flashed through her mind. "Well…that's okay. It's not like I have to stay here or anything. I can work in Chicago just as easily as I can work here."

            He raised a slightly bewildered eyebrow. "What do you mean, honey?"

            Midnight's smile did not fade. "I can go with you. We can live together and I can still be a newsie—people want to know the newsies everywhere, right?—and sell papers and maybe go to school when we have enough money."

            "Well, ah…" He coughed  again and stuck his hands in his pockets. "I don't know how well that would work, Jill. See, I would be working or traveling if that doesn't work out, and I never really know what's coming. And things are good for you here, right? You said you liked it here."

            "But…" Her lower lip quivered as she struggled to find the words that would make him understand. "I can go with you," she murmured softly, her voice almost lost in the bitter wind.

            He took a step back and laughed nervously. "It…it was good to see you." He reached out a hand to pat her absently on the shoulder. "I'll write." He took another step backwards, glancing over his shoulder at the path that led out of the park. Then he turned to his daughter again, whose eyes were illuminated by the soft glow of the gaslights and by her own confused tears. She swayed slightly, not knowing whether to throw herself around her father's neck again or to wait for him to do so.

            He sighed quietly and opened his mouth, unable to produce words for a moment. Finally he raised his hands, as if to half-heartedly fend off an attack. "Stay…" he murmured and swiftly whirled around on his heel. He was enveloped by the shadows of the park in seconds.

            Midnight could only stare, even after his retreating image had long since disappeared. The painful, quiet ache that had manifested itself in her heart years ago, when she had first traveled to New York City, began to tear violently through her. it did not stop, even when her breathing was choked by the tears that burned down her cheeks like hot wax. She shivered, although she did not believe that it was a reaction to the cold, and wrapped her arms tightly around her torso.

            And the snow began to fall.

To be continued…please review!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Thanks to Rhapsody for her wonderful reviews of the first two chapters. I really appreciate it! I hope you enjoy this (very short) chapter

            Bumlets did not hear the irritated cries and warnings of those he accidentally stumbled into as he stalked the streets. The only voices that echoed through his mind were those he was as familiar with as his own. Midnight had told him not to follow her but when she had not returned to the lodging house despite the snowstorm, he knew he had to do something.

            "It's a big city, Bumlets," Blink had told him as he had rushed around the boys' bunkroom in search of an extra scarf. "And she's one person. What makes ya t'ink ya can find her, especially in dis weaddah?"

            Bumlets had not replied to his fellow newsie then but he thought of an answer as he rushed down sidewalks and through alleys, crying her name. _Faith, he thought doggedly, finally answering Kid Blink's inquiry. The snow was piling up now, blanketing the streets and veiling shop windows. He glanced at the coat he carried under his arm, wondering what the storm would do to a newsgirl who sat unprotected in a gutter._

            He shook the grim thought out of his head. It was Christmas Eve and he would find her. Despite his assurance, worry clawed at his brain and increased the speed of his feet and heart.

*****

            Midnight wanted to crush the watch with her bare hands, but her fingers had turned a faint shade of blue and moved weakly. Her tears, although steady, were not the hot, noisy ones that had poured out of her eyes in Central Park. While she absently wandered away from the lake, they had become quiet and cold. She vaguely worried that they would become icicles and pierce her eyes. She remembered her grandmother reading her a fairy tale about a boy who had a shard of ice, like glass, in his eye that had stopped all of his emotions. That was what she wanted now. She would simply have to wait for the Snow Queen to take her away and she could be a barely living ice sculpture forever—cold and contented and nothing.

            _But this isn't a fairy tale, she reminded herself. __There's no one left who will melt the ice with his warm tears._

            She could almost hear her heart cracking like ice under her thin sweater. _And it's my fault. I betrayed him and this is what I deserve. She sank to the sidewalk and, leaning against the cold brick wall of a building, allowed the snow to rest on her defeated body._

*****

            Ivy shivered as she and Crutchy glanced outside, both wondering if Bumlets had found Midnight yet. There were no carols that evening as all of the newsies sat quietly and waited for any kind of news. "Do you think he's found her yet?" Ivy asked the newsboy, her soft voice fogging the frozen windowpane.

            Crutchy shrugged, wanting to tell her that everything would be all right. "I dunno," he admitted.

            "Hey," Cricket, the most anxious person in the lodging house that evening, called as she paced the floor, "any sign of 'em yet?"  
            Ivy shook her head and Crutchy replied, "Not yet."

            Boots stood on his toes to glimpse the snow falling, thicker and faster than it had been a moment ago. "It's a storm out there."

            "We know that, ya bleedin' idiot," Cricket snapped, her Cockney accent thickening and her eyes narrowing. When Boots held up his hands in defense she sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Boots, I'm just worried about Midnight and Bumlets. I mean…they could…I don't think…" she trailed off, unable to vocalize her fears.

            Boots shook his head in acceptance. "Hey, dat's all right. I undahstand."

            Cricket nodded and then, as she turned away, savagely kicked the brass leg of a bunk bed. She glared at the dent she left. "It'd take a miracle for 'im to find 'er, much less get 'er back 'ere before she's frozen."

            "But it's Christmas," Ivy piped up in her usual quiet but hopeful tone. "If there's any time for a miracle, it's got to happen now." The other newsies laughed somewhat bitterly and Ivy turned away to stare at the streets that were quickly becoming a flawless shade of white.

To be continued…please review!


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Here is the very belated conclusion of my story. Thanks to Kicker, Mystery, and especially Rhapsody for reviewing this fic.  You guys rock and I hope you enjoy this (rather short) ending.

            Bumlet's winter-cracked lips were so frozen that he could barely will them to form Midnight's name. He had shouted at first but now, as the snow immediately hid his tracks and as the snow struggled to tear her coat from his arms, he was reduced to whispering. He knew she would not be able to hear him over the howling wind, but the action served to keep up his hope.

            He marched by a pub filled with people and a beefy man holding a pint of beer shouted to him, "What's a young lad like ye doin' out on a night like this?" He chuckled at the sight of the newsboy striding through the snow.

            "I'm lookin' for someone," he replied, attempting to speak over the chattering of his teeth. "A goil, fifteen years-old, wid auburn hair. Ya seen her?"

            "Nah, can't say I have. Come in here, there are lots of fine lasses to catch your fancy."

            Bumlets hurried away, the sound of high-pitched, beer-soaked laughter biting at his heels. Images of warm beverages and blankets flashed through his mind but his feet, though frozen, pushed him forward. He trembled at the cold and the thought of Midnight alone in an alley without protection from the snow. Stories of young street children, who were unable to find refuge from blizzards, lying pale and frozen and dead in the gutters, echoed throughout his mind. He shivered violently at the thought of finding Midnight in a similar situation on Christmas morning. Lifting his gaze to the cloudy skies, he thought, _Please, I don't care if dat happens ta me; jus' let me find her and make shoah she's safe, and I won't ask for any moah._

            Bumlets had never truly believed in any higher power. His mother had attended church faithfully but it had not prevented her from dying far too young. As he turned a corner, however, he found his beliefs called into question. He looked down at an auburn haired girl who was blanketed by snow.

            "Midnight," he murmured as he fell to his knees at her side. She blinked once but her eyes were focused on the snowy streets. Her face was unnaturally pale and her lips were a faint shade of icy blue. In contrast her eyes were rimmed with red, with the telltale tracks of teardrops running down her cheeks. Bumlets immediately wrapped her coat around her, wishing that the threadbare wool could provide more warmth than it did. She did not acknowledge the act. He opened his mouth to ask her what had happened, but she finally spoke.

            "He didn't want me," she said softly and distantly, and Bumlets had the feeling that she had been repeating that phrase like a mantra. "I said I would go with him and he didn't want me. Why didn't he want me?"

            "Midnight," he whispered gently but dogged, "let's go back ta da lodgin' house. You'se half frozen." He tugged at her hand but she did not move.

            "I was going to leave you," she admitted, the guilt gnawing at every part of her even when the cold had left her numb. She could not look at him, especially when she felt him wince slightly. "I thought he came here to get me and I decided to go with him, even if that meant leaving New York. I wanted to look in his eye…like mine…and see that he had always loved me. But he walked away and I don't think he's ever going to come back. Like I wasn't going to come back."

            Bumlets was silent. _So Twink was right,_ he thought grimly.

            "He sent me away years ago and he didn't come back to get me."

            The newsboy furrowed his forehead in confusion, and then the realization that she was not talking about another young man startled him into speech. "Ya…ya mean your faddah, don't ya?" Midnight had spoken only casually of the man who traveled up and down the coast in search of work. He felt dizzy at the thought of all that Midnight had been hiding during the passed few days. It was not that he felt betrayed by the concealment of this information; he was concerned with the enormity of the burden that Midnight felt she had to bear alone.

            She nodded dumbly and stared at the watch she still clutched. It felt frozen to her palm now. "I didn't even get to give him this. And I don't have any presents for anyone else."

            "Why didn't you come back ta da lodgin' house?" he inquired softly. "You could die out here."

            "But I…I," she mumbled, her voice cracking with the threat of tears, "I was going to leave you. I couldn't just go back, knowing that. And now you know that. I was going to give up you and Cricket and everyone else for someone who didn't even want me in the first place. How could I do that to you?"

            Bumlets blinked once and furrowed his forehead in surprise. "Ya can always go home," he told her gently but insistently.

            Breaking her gaze at the watch, she turned to stare into his eyes, which were far warmer and more empathetic than she remembered her father's being. _A few hours ago I thought of home as __Maine__, even after spending years in the __Manhattan__ Lodging House. But really, what was there that I could go back to? A smile curled around her mouth as she realized that it did not matter that her father was most likely hopping the next train to God-knows-where. She would not lie awake at night aching for his acceptance and love. She would not deny what had always been right in front of her, what she had never truly noticed until now, as the storm became a gentle snowfall and as the moon peeked out from in between thick gray clouds.  Her heart careened against her chest and she aimlessly wondered if Bumlets could hear it pounding beneath the frail layers of wool and flesh. It was cracking like the ice on her eyelashes, warmed by her own tears of love. Moved by a passion greater than any she had ever known, she leaned forward and pressed her frozen lips to Bumlets'._

            Both newsies felt a kind of warmth spread throughout their entire bodies so that they were unaware of the snow, of the tears frozen to Midnight cheeks, of the silvery moonlight that blanketed them. They trembled not out of biting coldness and pain but out of love and desire and hope. Love swelled in them like an ocean and sang like they knew the Manhattan newsies would later that evening. They felt like singing themselves, hoarse voices lifted in joyous praise of what they had discovered that evening.

            When they broke apart they stared at each other in awe of what they had shared. The bells of St. Patrick's chimed with unusual joviality in the distance, heralding the arrival of Christmas day. Bumlets smiled widely and, climbing to his feet, helped Midnight's aching limbs to rise. They huddled close as they marched back to the lodging house, fingers entwined and torsos seemingly melding together. They knew that they would not separate when they arrived back at the lodging house, even as they were both swept up in the zealous embraces of their friends. They would drink hot cider, munch on fresh bread donated by a local church, and laugh merrily until sleep claimed them. And even with the promise of other winters and holidays and years to come, Bumlets and Midnight knew that they would never be separated. They had bound themselves together in the frigid darkness of Christmas Eve, finding warmth and home in each other's eyes.

The end…please review!


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